


Haze Slice

by BoomyMcBlasty



Series: Between the Lines [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Feelings Realization, Fix-It, Mild Blood, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Reunions, Scheming, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomyMcBlasty/pseuds/BoomyMcBlasty
Summary: “Fraternizing with the enemy?” Claude hops down from his wyvern and joins them on foot. “Tsk, tsk.”There are no weapons in sight, he made sure of it with plenty of staring, but he’s still the embodiment of distrust.Ingrid’s face lights up when she sees him, and the fact stuns him for a moment. That expression on her is new and welcome. “Claude.” She bows to him formally, with a hint of a smile still on her lips. “I am representing the troops of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”A what-if scenario about merging the Azure Moon & Verdant Wind paths.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Claude von Riegan
Series: Between the Lines [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509104
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Haze Slice

The heavy fog that seeps through Gronder Field makes the distant war cries sound eerie. The Adrestian army is already clashing against what remains of the Kingdom.

Claude gestures to the scouts to move; they disappear in the thick haze, weapons at hand.

“Are we  _ truly  _ going to wait for them?” 

He would love to tease Lysithea for the alarmed looks she keeps throwing at the fog, unkind in its magical nature, but a yell sounds more like a howl than what’s humanly possible and it manages to chill him to the bone. “They never answered our messenger.” He soothes his wyvern with a head scratch—its content noise makes him feel calmer in return. “I wouldn’t put it past our dear Emperor’s lapdog to tamper with our epistolary exchange.”   
Lysithea concedes with a hum.

A dull smell, carried like miasma in the fog, makes Claude’s nose curl. “Something is burning.”

“The fort in the middle, I reckon.” Lysithea looks at the map in her hand. “I will ask you one more time—”

A yelp interrupts her, makes her jump in surprise. It’s Marianne, with her long skirt bunched up in her hands, who runs as fast as she can past them without a single word. 

Lysithea frowns. “That’s the direction of the Kingdom’s camp.”

Claude hates the fog for depriving him of much needed visibility. “Marianne?” He can hear voices from that direction, but can’t make out their words. Nobody is screaming, which is a good sign. “Pipsqueak, guys, stay here,” he orders. The Immortal Corps acknowledge him with a brisk  _ yes, sir! _

“Pipsqueak?!” Lysithea readies a dark spell in her hand. “Say that to my face!”

“I just did!”

Claude dives into the fog, tracing Marianne’s steps. The flapping of his wyvern’s wings make the white swirls of haze dance in the air. Yup, the phenomenon is definitely magical in nature—perhaps it’s part of the  _ chaotic warfare _ the Emperor mentioned. It certainly is working. He advances carefully, still unsure of what to expect, until he sees Marianne, Ignatz and… Ingrid? The tree are grouped around a distressed pegasus, covered in blood.

Five years have passed, yet Ingrid still looks so familiar. Claude stills, taking a moment to observe her. The new haircut suits her personality much better, and the pins make the style look less austere, almost cute. He likes the changes, likes them  _ a lot _ . Ingrid is at ease in the blood-soaked armor, free from the long Academy skirt. Pants on her, especially those so snug, are a blessing. 

Ignatz keeps his distance from the pegasus, looking on the verge of a breakdown. “I am truly sorry, I… I got scared.” 

The animal sports a mean puncture on its side and it can’t stay still. While Marianne assesses the damage, apologetically whispering to the beast, Ingrid pats its white coat with sad eyes.

“Fraternizing with the enemy?” Claude hops down from his wyvern and joins them on foot. “Tsk, tsk.”

There are no weapons in sight, he made sure of it with  _ plenty _ of staring, but he’s still the embodiment of distrust.

Ingrid’s face lights up when she sees him, and the fact stuns him for a moment. That expression on her is new and welcome. “Claude.” She bows to him formally, with a hint of a smile still on her lips. “I am representing the troops of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

“Don’t plant an arrow in the messenger, they say,” mutters Ignatz, fiddling with the feather on his cloak. “And what do I do? Plant one in the messenger.”

Marianne channels some healing magic on the pegasus’ wounds, that kicks wildly with a pained neigh. His own wyvern sniffs loudly, mirroring the distress.

“Arthur...” Ingrid relaxes her pose to keep her steed from moving. “It hurts, I know it hurts, but you need to keep still. Please…”

“Let me guess.” Claude shakes his head. “ _ Someone _ flew over the brook and took an arrow from our bespectacled marksman.”

Ignatz lowers his gaze in shame. “...it was meant as a warning.”

Marianne chips in with her soft voice, stroking the pegasus’ bloody coat. “Arthur will be fine.” The wound seems gone, at least.

Ingrid sighs in relief. She presses her face against the pegasus’ head and whispers: “Can I leave him under your care, Marianne? He’s too afraid to be in the fray.”

“I’ll be happy to oblige.”

Claude’s chest tightens with an emotion he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. Duke Riegan, Leader of the Alliance, can’t be seen acting vulnerable, yet here Ingrid is, showing her concern on her sleeve and being just fine, and making Claude  _ feel _ .

He schools his expression into his usual, easy smile.

“Marianne, bring the pegasus to the camp.” She nods and guides the beast through the fog. “Ignatz, go warn Leonie and Hilda about the  _ little thing  _ we decided to do yesterday.”

It would be a terrible move to ambush the Kingdom at this point in time, after all. Ignatz’s eyes widen in understanding and he excuses himself.

Finally alone with Ingrid, Claude is almost ready to talk business; seeing her covered in blood makes him irrationally afraid, and he needs to lighten up the mood, for his own good for than hers. “Here to kill every last one—”

Ingrid plants her hands on her hips, trying to appear bigger than she is. “Claude.” His words managed to summon the ultimate form of her angry lines, which in his flawless logic don’t make her look any less pretty. “It’s no joking matter.”

“You have to admit, it’s a great one liner.” 

Ingrid crosses her arms. Maybe his ice breaking technique is rusty...

“I assume Teach sent you?”

“Yes.”

Claude clutches his chest, theatrically. “Aren’t you disobeying a direct order from His Princeliness by not sticking your spear in various places all over my body?”

Ingrid looks lost for a second. Her pretty eyes darken with an emotion Claude has never seen before on her. “If I blindly followed His Majesty around, I would become like  _ him _ .”

Claude remembers the name of the man—of the  _ boy _ , he died at 15—uttered with reverence when they were still students:  _ Glenn _ . He regrets working an innuendo in his question. There is still respect in her voice for him, but no reverence.

“His Majesty complies with Professor Byleth’s commands. I am…  _ technically  _ not disobeying him.”

“You’re here to suggest we work together to take Adrestia down, aren’t you?” Claude claps. “Proposal accepted.”

He expects Ingrid to act surprised—impressed—at his cunning foresight; instead she smiles with pink dusted cheeks, and that whacks his thoughts out of his head. Why did Teach have to send  _ her…  _ scrap that, Claude knows exactly why. 

Ingrid takes a roll of parchment from the bag on her side. “Our messengers were killed outside of the monastery. This is what we wanted you to read.”

Claude accepts the message with a grimace. “Ours never managed to leave Gloucester territory.” He skims through the document, brief and to the point, penned by Teach, Lord Fraldarius and Gilbert of the Knights of Seiros. Their troops have already been ordered not to attack anybody from the Alliance. Schemy little Teach...   
A scream tears through the fog and startles them both. 

Ingrid looks back at the wall of white haze hiding the Kingdom camp from sight. “We should move. The Kingdom troops are engaging the Empire’s men right now.”

Claude rolls up the document and places it in his bag. “Do you know anything about the fort in the middle?”

“It caught fire.” Ingrid’s voice trails off. “A stray spell, I hope.”

“Well then, hop on.” Claude mounts his wyvern and pats the space behind him. The saddle is not made for two, but it should accommodate them both. “And do not mention anything about being  _ too lowly _ , or you’ll incur the wrath of the mighty Leicester Alliance’s Leader.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes, but complies. She climbs the wyvern with confidence and takes her place behind him. If only the roles were reversed… if only they weren’t on a field of slaughter. Claude pushes the inappropriate thoughts away and focuses on the task at hand. Before they have a chance to talk, he needs to arrange the formation of the troops and make sure they all know their new orders. The low visibility of the area and the caution they need to exercise make for a wonderful tactical challenge.

“Tell them to avoid His Majesty, please.” Ingrid’s arms wrap tighter over him. “He is not in the best state of mind right now.”

“Understatement of the century.”

Claude decides to flank the Empire with his Immortal Corps after the Alliance troops charge in. He puts Raphael as their leader, since the man can take a couple of hits.

The fog has only thickened, and instead of flying freely, his battalion of wyverns is forced to hover barely above the ground, a necessary yet pathetic evil. 

It’s a damn shame that Claude doesn’t have eyes on the back of his head. Ingrid is pressed flush against him; he can feel her thighs against his own and is questioning his own sanity. Her presence is very distracting.

“What a magnificent wyvern.” Ingrid’s reverent tone makes him feel proud of his steed. “I’ve never seen one with white scales. Does it have a name?”

_ Barbarossa _ , like the hero of legends. The Gonerils have a  Fódlanese pronunciation for the name, but saying it in a language other than Almyran feels  _ wrong _ , so Claude always refers to it as ‘my wyvern’. Admitting his fondness to it would be a display of weakness, easily exploitable.

“I didn’t give it a name.” Rather than a lie, it’s an omission of truth: his father was the one to name the wyvern.

“A shame.”

Despite his inclination to have hormonal thoughts about the situation they’re sharing, what’s between them now is nothing more than cordial acquaintance. It will take a while for them to fall into the easy bickering of their past; a battlefield might not be the best location to catch up, but as long as they keep their voice down, they can start to get to know each other  _ again _ .

Claude breaks the silence because he wants to hear her voice. “What have you been up to?” Curse you, Professor. His schoolboy feelings for Ingrid came back with a vengeance after so much as looking in her direction.

“I joined the resistance in the East.”

“You’ve been fighting those Dukedom guys, huh.” It doesn’t surprise him, really. She is meant for battlefield tales and knightly endeavors. “You guys never thought of asking House Daphnel for help?”

“It’s our duty as citizens of the Kingdom to crush the traitors in the Dukedom.” He can feel her shake her head. “We didn’t want to trouble the Alliance… you have enough problems on your own.”

“Ouch! And here I thought you would admire the finesse of my leadership, the only thing to keep this sinking ship afloat.” Perhaps he’s revealing too much. He can hear whispers from his men—comparing the Alliance to a sinking ship might not be the best analogy for morale...

“Your leadership _ is  _ quite impressive, I will give you that.’

“Stop it with the compliments, Ingrid.” Claude fans his face. “My heart can’t take them from you.”

“I’m simply stating the truth.” She doesn’t take his half-assed bait. “I wish His Majesty had learned a thing or two from you at the Academy. Instead, he was framed and… well.”

“Dimitri has always been too earnest for court intrigues.”

Ingrid squeezes him tighter. “He has changed.”

“We all have.”

“You still strike me as the same.” He can finally hear a smile in her voice. “Or maybe you’re better at hiding how the war affected you.”

They haven't seen each other in five years and she can already read him. Damn.

“I hope your propensity to give lectures has thinned.”

“It has not, but there is a time and place for everything.”

It’s unfair, really. The breastplate that presses on his back is just that, a piece of metal that blocks her warmth. When Claude’s gaze lingers on himself, he sees her arms around him, strong and seasoned, yet so dainty compared to his. 

...wait, is she leaving blood on his stole?

Distant neighs make him pull at the reins with alertness. Friend or foe? With a gesture of his hand, the Immortal Corps that surround him move towards the source of the noise.

Knights in formation. They all nock an arrow, but don’t draw it yet.

Ingrid hops off the wyvern to run towards the knights. “Sylvain!” Their commander, the heir to Gautier, is channeling a healing spell against the bare arm of a knight. The light shines through the fog, making it even harder to see.

Claude’s battalion relaxes when they realize it’s the Kingdom’s cavalry.

As soon as Sylvain sees Ingrid, before evening greeting her, he envelops her in the soft light of a healing spell as well.

Claude can’t make out their words, curse the damn fog, but she is safe now. He can still feel her against his back.  _ Jealousy _ , really?

Instead of mulling over his dumb feelings, Claude has a cheeky flank to pull off. Without a word—they’ll talk later—he gestures to his troops to move.

When he sneaks in a last glance, he sees Ingrid on the horse of the wounded soldier, with the cavalryman haggardly secured behind her. He can’t hear her words, but he can see the confidence she radiates on the battlefield, the strength of her resolve. Doesn’t that make  _ him  _ feel weak.

Claude leaves before his thoughts get out of control. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still really salty that post-time skip Gronder Field is not a fog of war map.


End file.
